


time lost, love gained

by TheDragon



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Canon Era, Getting Together, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Minor Injuries, Oral Sex, Temporary Amnesia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:27:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27788251
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDragon/pseuds/TheDragon
Summary: Merlin isn't asking for much. He just wants one—one—patrol where nothing bad happens. He wants one, single patrol thatdoesn'tend up with them having to face yetanothergroup of bandits. Why does Arthur feel the need to keep putting them in these situations?
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 24
Kudos: 308
Collections: Merlin Holidays 2020





	time lost, love gained

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Merlin Holidays Community](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Merlin+Holidays+Community).



> Happy holidays, everyone!

Merlin has never liked it when Arthur gets himself in trouble. Unfortunately, since he _is_ the king, it comes with the territory—though Merlin _would_ appreciate it if Arthur stopped putting them in situations that made it _easier_ for trouble to find them.

He isn't asking for much. He just wants one— _one_ —patrol where nothing bad happens to them. Just one. Just a single patrol where they go prancing about the countryside, eating the rations they've brought and whatever they manage to hunt along the way. Merlin wants one, single patrol that _doesn't_ end up with them having to face yet _another_ group of bandits.

Take this patrol, for example. Three days prior, while being chased around the citadel by Lord Something-Or-Other and Lady What's-Her-Name, Arthur came to the brilliant conclusion that he needed a break. And how better to get one than under guise of a patrol?

And as luck would have it, shortly after, they received word that bandits had started raiding some of the outlying villages and Arthur decided to head there himself rather than send a contingent of knights. Apparently, he'd gone too long without stabbing anyone and felt the need to rectify that.

Were Merlin in a charitable mood, he would have ascribed this particular brand of trouble to the bandits themselves. If pressured, he could even have placed the blame upon Arthur's council, who have taken to accosting their king with increasingly inane queries, most which have been, quite frankly, driving Arthur up the wall, with Merlin there to witness his frustration first-hand.

But seeing as he isn't in a charitable mood—he's nowhere _near_ being in a charitable mood; Merlin is so far from being in a charitable mood he may as well be on the other side of the _planet_ —he's decided to place the blame entirely on Arthur. There were so many other routes they could have taken. If Arthur wanted to fight something, Merlin could have magicked him up a monster, as long as it would have kept Arthur out of _worse_ trouble.

Merlin barely manages to duck out of the way of a sword aiming to take his head clean off his shoulders.

"Why are you attacking me?" he asks the bandit incredulously. "Try going after people who actually have weapons! I'm not the one you need to worry about! "

Which is a bald-faced lie, but Merlin is under no obligation to tell the truth to people who are trying to murder him. Besides, the sooner he's left in peace, the sooner he can start casting spells, because unfortunately, it's hard to focus his magic and dodge sharp blades at the same time.

There's one spell that doesn't require much focus though, not with how much practice Merlin has had using it. Eyes flashing gold, he lets a sliver of power slip out and head towards a tree root, urging it to curl around the bandit's foot and trip him up.

It works as well as could be expected—by which he means that the bandit, having been too focused on Merlin to watch his feet, ends up face-first in the dirt. Merlin takes the opportunity to check on Arthur and the rest of the knights and see how they're doing. They've _all_ been thirsting after a good fight; sometimes, Merlin thinks he'll never understand these block-headed types. Knights seem like a completely different species.

Gwaine and Percival look like they're having the time of their lives, standing back to back and fending off their opponents with ease. Elyan, positioned a bit towards the back of the group, is currently engaged in combat with a man at least twice his size. Lancelot retrieved his crossbow from his saddlebag and is firing off bolts at any bandit in range, and Leon is waving around his axe—a recent acquisition, and he’s been dying to get the chance to use it properly.

Arthur—having been blessed with as much arrogance as he has fighting ability—is facing off against four men at once. As Merlin watches, he thrusts his sword into the stomach of the bandit in front of him. Before he has the time to remove it, the man to his left swings his mace towards Arthur's unprotected back.

With a whispered spell and an outstretched hand, Merlin sends him and his companions flying back. They all go crashing into trees and don't get up again.

Arthur's shouting something, waving one of his arms to the side. Confused, Merlin looks in the direction Arthur's pointing towards and—

—and then everything goes dark.

~oOo~

The first thing Merlin becomes aware of is the throbbing at the back of his head. With a pained groan, he reaches for the injury, only for his wrist to be caught in a grip tight enough to crush bones.

"Ow," Merlin says, his voice barely more than a quiet whimper. Half-heartedly, he tugs his hand towards him in an attempt to free himself. He doesn't expect it to work and blinks his eyes open in surprise when the grip on his wrist is relinquished and his hand goes flying towards his own chest.

"—lin. Merlin!"

"What?" Merlin grumbles, trying to focus his blurry vision on the person who's speaking, barely able to make out his name through the ringing in his ears. Gods, he feels like he's going to be _sick_. Merlin closes his eyes.

"Merlin?" the voice asks. This time, it's accompanied by a light touch to his cheek, then another to his temple. Someone's hand pushes his fringe away from his face. It takes an extraordinary amount of effort, but Merlin manages to open his eyes again.

His vision isn't much better than it was a few seconds ago, but this time, he can at least make out the face of the person kneeling before him.

"Hmmm…" Merlin hums, trying to focus his eyes enough to be able to make out the person's—a man, judging by the timbre of his voice—facial features. It's all a blur of colours at first: golden hair and suntanned skin and blue, _blue_ eyes. The longer he stares, the clearer the image becomes.

And then he sees the Camelot red.

What follows is a flurry of movement, both on his part and the knight's. Every red cape, every shining, silver blade comes into sharp focus. The _world_ comes into sharp focus, and Merlin realises that it's not just one knight before him, no, but rather a whole contingent of men in red, just like the ones his mother was always warning him about—men who slaughter people like him for sport.

"No," Merlin groans, scrambling to his feet. He pulls away when the man reaches out for him, the worry on his face plain as day, though Merlin can’t for the life of him figure out why someone he doesn’t know would be concerned for him.

"Sit down before you hurt yourself," the man says, voice fraught with tension. " _Merlin_."

The knight reaches out towards him again, this time with both hands instead of one, but Merlin can only see the chainmail sleeves, the dagger at his belt, the sword lying on the ground near his feet.

The panic threatens to overwhelm him because it wouldn’t take much, would it? All the man would have to do is reach for one of his weapons and shove it right into Merlin’s body. All he would need is a second, no more, and then Merlin would be lying on the ground injured _dying **dead**_ and—

The moment the knight makes contact, Merlin's magic, just as panicked as he is, escapes him in a flurry and _shoves_ everyone away.

Using magic in his state is draining, and Merlin finds himself headed right back towards the ground. His hands feel like lead where they're hanging at his sides, and Merlin knows, he _knows_ he won't be able to bring them up in time to break his fall. He's prepared to fall face-first onto the ground, for his head to hurt more than it already does, assuming that's even possible.

For the Camelot knights to kill him now that they’ve seen undeniable proof of his magic.

What Merlin is _not_ prepared for is being caught in someone's arms and gently lowered to the ground.

"Merlin, you _idiot!_ " the blond knight seethes, carefully cradling Merlin's head on his lap. "What were you _thinking_ , using magic in your state?!"

And that— _that_ is what stops Merlin in his tracks.

"You know my name," he says, only realising this now, despite the man having said it earlier. "You know about my magic?"

"Of _course_ I know about your magic!"

He’s… he’s shouting, but he doesn’t look angry at all; worried, if anything. Merlin isn't sure he likes the way the concern creases the knight's face, making him look so much older than he is.

But… Merlin doesn't know how old this man is. He's not sure where that last thought came from.

Merlin startles when his fringe is pushed back from his forehead. He looks up at the man, at the bright blue of his eyes, and distantly wonders why they feel so familiar.

"—head."

The ringing is back. Merlin tries to shake his head, hoping that will make it recede, but the man holds him tight and refuses to let him move.

"I said, keep still!" he grumbles. "Did you hear me? You injured your head. You shouldn't be moving around. Do you _want_ to aggravate your injury?"

"No?" Merlin says, though the word comes out sounding more like a question. Gods, the nausea is back, and it feels like a fog has settled over his brain, making it hard to focus on anyone or anything. Merlin lets his eyes slip shut in an effort to calm the roiling of his stomach.

"Merlin," the man says, his voice insistent enough to get Merlin to reopen his eyes. "Do you… Do you know who I am?"

"Yes," Merlin says, furrowing his eyebrows. "'Course I do." He would leave it at that, but the hopeful expression on the man’s face prompts him to continue speaking. "You're a knight of Camelot."

Apparently, that's the wrong thing to say. The knight puts his hand over his mouth and makes a sound not unlike a sob, but that can't be right, can it? He's. He's not supposed to feel sad, not over Merlin. No man is worth his tears.

Merlin blinks.

"You don't remember," the man says, the words on the verge of becoming hysterical. Merlin can almost hear the creaking of his teeth as he clenches his jaw. "We need to get you to a physician. You hit your head pretty hard."

"I'm fine!" Merlin protests. He tries to get up again to make his point, but the man holds him down. What's all the more depressing is that it barely requires any effort on his part and ends with Merlin panting like he'd just run from Ealdor to Camelot and back. "All right, so maybe I'm not fine," he says once he's managed to catch his breath.

"You don't say." One of the knight's eyebrows is twitching; Merlin comes _this close_ to reaching for it and smoothing it out, but it seems like far too intimate a gesture to make towards someone he's only just met.

Though the man _is_ behaving as though they've known each other for a while, which gives Merlin pause. What was it he said before, about Merlin not remembering? Just… just how much did he forget?

"How…" Merlin says, clearing his throat. "How do you know my name?"

The man looks down at him searchingly, his eyes darting between Merlin's own. Merlin has no idea what it is he's looking for, but judging by his expression, the knight doesn’t find it.

"I… you're my manservant," the man says, the words sounding as though they're being forced from his lips.

That doesn't explain why the man is holding him so tenderly, so gently, as though he's afraid that if he lets go, Merlin is going to up and vanish without a trace. Which—fair enough. What sort of sorcerer would he be if he _didn't_ try to flee from Camelot knights who know about his magic?

But staring up into those bright blue eyes, Merlin feels the last of that resolve leave him and is overcome with the certainty that he’s right where he belongs.

"Manservant? I'm your manservant." He doesn't think it's possible for his tone to come across as more disbelieving if he tried. He, a peasant from Ealdor, manservant to a knight of Camelot?

Maybe the head injury is getting to him. Or maybe he’s asleep, because _clearly_ none of this is real.

"Yes," the man replies, gnawing on his bottom lip. For a split second, it looks as though he's going to continue speaking, but when Merlin raises an eyebrow, he shuts down.

"And… and the rest of them?" Merlin asks, waving a hand at the group of men standing near them, all looking far too concerned over the wellbeing of a mere _servant_.

"They're m— they're knight's. _We're_ knights," is the stilted reply he gets.

"I never would have guessed," Merlin says dryly, tugging at the man's red cloak. Expending the effort is worth it to see his face transformed by a smile.

"My name is Arthur," Merlin's knight tells him, caressing his cheekbone with his thumb. "And over there is Elyan, Percival, Gwaine, Leon, and Lancelot." Arthur points to each man in turn.

"Right. I'm—" Merlin starts to say, then cuts off with a quiet chuckle he immediately regrets for the way it makes his head pound. "Um. I guess you already know who I am."

And isn’t that odd, to be surrounded by people who he doesn’t know, but who know him in turn. He’ll give himself some time to properly panic over this once the pounding in his head recedes and his stomach calms.

The third man—Gwaine—looks like he wants to say something, but a sharp shake of the head from Arthur stops him. Gwaine's shoulders droop and he stomps off without another word.

"Is he all right?"

"Gwaine's fine," Arthur says, tightening his grip on Merlin ever so slightly. "He's just gone off to get the medical supplies." That last sentence, meant more for Gwaine than Merlin, he says with a raised voice.

"For my head," Merlin guesses. He tries to reach for the injury again, but his hand is immediately batted away.

"Don't touch it!" Arthur scolds. "You're a physician's apprentice; you should know better!"

"I am?" Merlin asks, but obediently places his hand back at his side. "I thought I was your manservant."

"You're both." Arthur runs his fingers through Merlin's hair, far away from the injury. It's such a welcome distraction from the pain in his head that Merlin finds himself leaning into the touch. He's not used to people touching him like this; no one besides his mother has ever touched him like this, so gently and tenderly. So _lovingly_.

Speaking of which…

"My mother must be proud."

Arthur's fingers momentarily stop their movements; Merlin nudges Arthur's wrist with his nose to get him moving again and is pleasantly surprised when it works.

"She is," is the reply he gets. Arthur smiles down at him, but it's shaky, threatening to slip off his face any second. It feels almost as though Arthur is trying to tell him that it's not just Merlin's mother that's proud.

The conversation stalls when Gwaine comes back with the medical supplies, a glower fixed on his face, though it doesn't seem to be directed at anyone in particular. Merlin stays still as Gwaine and Arthur work together to clean his wound and bandage it.

They tell him that the hit he suffered made him lose some of his memories—a conclusion that Merlin already reached himself—and the sight of his hands—far more scarred than he remembers them being—is enough to confirm it. And that's not to mention the clothes he's wearing are far more luxurious than anything he could have afforded on his own.

He _should_ be panicking, he thinks, knowing that he's lost so much time, so many memories. Panicking, because these men, these _knights_ know all about his magic, though don't seem to want to kill him for it.

His head aches too much, though, and the harder he thinks, the more nauseous he gets.

"I want to sleep," Merlin says once Gwaine's tied off the bandage.

"You're not going to sleep," Arthur tells him, carefully pulling him to his feet. The world whirls before him, the greens and browns and reds and greys all melding together. His stomach is churning again, and Arthur's boots look nice, all dark brown leather and shiny buckles—nothing Merlin would be able to afford to replace should he sick up on them.

Arthur doesn't seem to care too much about his boots, though, or any of his other clothes, because he puts one of Merlin's arms around his own shoulders and helps him take a few steps forwards. He's so committed to his task that he barely pays any attention to Merlin's groans and pleas to let him lie back down.

"We're only a few hours' ride from the citadel," Arthur says, gently nudging Merlin's head with his own. "We get you to Gaius as soon as we can."

With one last, resigned sigh, Merlin closes his eyes and continues walking forward despite how hard it is to put one foot in front of the other.

"Does anything else hurt?" Arthur asks once they're standing in front of a horse. "Or is it just your head."

The words 'I'm fine' are on the tip of Merlin's tongue, but the way Arthur's looking at him makes him reluctant to actually say them.

"My back," he says instead, barely managing to clamber up into the saddle—and since when does he know how to ride, anyway? "It feels like one big bruise. But Arthur, I don't think I'll be able to keep myself in the saddle."

"I’ll be riding with you." Arthur swings himself up onto the horse behind him and grabs the reins with one hand, wrapping the other around Merlin's waist. After a moment of hesitation, Merlin allows himself to lean back against Arthur's chest and puts his head on Arthur's shoulder, being careful not to put pressure on his injury.

The ride to the citadel is a haze. More than once, their little group has to stop because the dizziness becomes too overwhelming, making him feel as though he's about to collapse despite already sitting down. Each time, Arthur holds him through it, brushing his fringe away from his face and pressing a waterskin to his lips once the worst of it has passed.

This isn't how Merlin imagined a master treating his servant. To him, nobles have always been cold and distant—untouchable. But the way Arthur is treating him now, the way he's _been_ treating Merlin since he woke up…

It makes him wonder if there isn't something more to their relationship.

Just the mere thought of the two of them being something _more_ has butterflies flapping away in his belly. His magic presses at his skin, fighting to be released, and, well, it's always been hard to control on a good day, but with Merlin injured and exhausted…

He can't help the wind that suddenly rushes through the forest, sending everyone's capes fluttering in the wind. He can't help the wildflowers that start blooming despite it quite obviously being the wrong season for it. Behind him, Arthur shudders.

"Sorry," Merlin says, tilting his head down so Arthur doesn't see the blush that's risen to his cheeks.

"Don't be," Arthur says, his warm breath displacing some hair at the side of Merlin's head and tickling his ear. He seems… he doesn't seem to mind Merlin's magic at all. Just how much have things in Camelot changed? "I'm used to it."

They must have known each other for a while, then. Years, probably, since Merlin can't imagine confessing his magic to someone he barely knows.

Though knowing him, it probably wasn't an heartfelt confession so much as an accidental revelation, probably in the midst of battle. Arthur may have tried to shield him from seeing the bodies lying spread through the clearing—probably to spare him the anxiety—but Merlin is injured, not blind.

One body in particular was lying rather close to him, a club right next to it. It isn’t much of a stretch to assume that was the man who wounded him, who caused him to lose his memories, who—

"How long have we known each other?" Merlin asks, desperate to take his mind off the attack.

"Seven years, give or take." Arthur tightens his grip. Then, almost as if he's prefacing Merlin's next question, he says, "I've only known about your magic for a little over a year."

"Oh," is all Merlin is of a mind to say. "Who's. Who's the King?" He can't imagine Uther Pendragon welcoming magic back into his kingdom, not after the lengths he went to to get rid of it.

"That would be King Arthur," Gwaine says, riding up to them. He shoots Arthur a look Merlin can't quite make sense of before continuing. "King Uther died a while back. The restrictions on magic have been all but lifted."

"King Arthur, huh?" Merlin grins, gently elbowing Arthur. "Looks to be a popular name."

Gwaine makes a sound like he's dying. Concerned, Merlin looks back at him, but he's quickly waved off.

"I'm fine, I'm fine. Got something stuck in my throat, is all," Gwaine says, clearing said throat a few times.

"But you weren't eating anything," Merlin says confused. Arthur's annoyed huff brings Merlin's attention back to him.

"Try to get some rest, Merlin," Arthur says, avoiding eye contact. "It'll be a while before we get to Camelot."

It would be the sensible thing to do. Despite barely having done anything since waking up, Merlin feels exhausted. The rocking motion of the horse below him and Arthur's soft breaths in his ear have been trying to lull him to sleep since they set off, but Merlin's been trying to avoid it.

It's not that he doesn't trust these men. Despite having lost years—gods, it really is _years_ , isn't it?—of his memories, he feels a kinship with them. A _familiarity_. They've been nothing but kind to him, especially Arthur.

"Yeah," Merlin says, closing his eyes. "I think I will.

~oOo~

He wakes up to someone lifting him off the horse. With a quiet grumble of protest, Merlin opens his eyes, only to come face-to-face with Arthur.

"Wha'?" Merlin asks, raising one hand to rub at his eyes. "Wh're we?"

"We're home." Arthur doesn't bother to let him down onto the ground, which is just as well, because Merlin's legs feel like they've turned to aspic. He doesn't think he'd be able to walk a single step with the state he's in.

He doesn't feel any better than he did before he went to sleep. His head aches more than it did before, so much so that he finds himself having to bite back a whimper with each step Arthur takes. Merlin tries to breath through it.

It's not until Arthur's warmth leaves him that Merlin realises he's been set down on something soft.

Merlin catches the edge of Arthur's cape before he can go anywhere.

"Stay?" Merlin says. His tongue is heavy in his mouth, and he feels like he's going to fall right back asleep. Arthur looks at him for a moment, then at the hand gripping his cape before he sighs.

"I'll get myself a chair," he says, gently untangling Merlin's fingers from the fabric. "I'll be right back.

"Thanks, love." Merlin doesn't manage to stay awake long enough for Arthur to return.

~oOo~

The next time Merlin wakes, someone is standing over him, messing with the bandage wound around his head.

"Merlin, my boy! You're awake!" the old man exclaims, his spectacles slipping down his nose. When Merlin doesn't do much more than blink up at him, he sits down on the edge of the cot and takes his hands away. "Arthur told me you'd lost your memories, but I hoped he was wrong."

Arthur.

"Where's Arthur?" Merlin asks, looking around. He promised to stay, didn't he? Not that… Not that Merlin would hold him to that, of course, especially considering it's already morning, if the light filtering in through the window is anything to go by. When Merlin tries to sit up, the old man helps him, taking care to keep Merlin's blanket from sliding off him and down onto the floor.

"Arthur's asleep in your room. He spent the whole night at your bedside."

Hearing those words sends a warm feeling racing through Merlin's chest. He wouldn't be able to stop the smile from rising to his face if he tried.

The man—Gaius, Merlin presumes—tuts once, then gets up and walks over to a workbench.

"I have some willow bark tincture for you to drink to help with your headache, and I'll be needing to change your bandages again. Nothing to be done about your memory, I'm afraid. It would be best to wait and see if it comes back." He turns around and hands Merlin a vial. "It smells better than it tastes."

Merlin sniffs at it, suspicious. "It… doesn't actually smell that bad," he says, before downing the whole thing in one go. "Ugh, that's _bitter_!"

"Yes, well, I did warn you," Gaius tuts. "Now, let me see about finding you some bandages. Where did I put them…"

Merlin tunes Gaius out as he continues talking, opting to take a good look around the room. The books, the glassware, the drying herbs… it all feels so weirdly familiar, yet at the same time, Merlin feels as though this is the first time he’s seeing it. A muffled sound coming from behind one of the doors draws his attention to it.

"Is _that_ my room?" he asks Gaius, startling him into almost dropping the bandages onto the floor. "The one with the… creaking." Merlin waves one hand in the general direction of the door.

"It is," Gaius confirms. "And really, Merlin— _do_ keep your voice down. His Majesty deserves some rest after the night he's had."

"His Majesty?" Merlin asks, confused. "But what would King Arthur be doing in my room?"

…Unless the Arthur who brought him here, the Arthur who tended to his wounds, the Arthur Merlin distantly remembers calling 'love' of all thing isn't a knight, as he said but rather—

"Arthur's the king?!" he exclaims, unable to get a handle on his incredulity.

"What did I just say?" Gaius levels at him a glare so intense that Merlin withers. They both pause as more noises sound behind the door and Arthur walks out, all sleep-rumpled and soft, with a pillow crease on the side of his face. The sight of it has Merlin's heart racing.

Arthur blinks a few times, then looks around the room, not stopping until his gaze lands on Merlin. Despite his shock, Merlin finds himself reciprocating the smile Arthur sends his way.

"You're looking better," Arthur says, padding up to him with a blanket— _Merlin's_ blanket—trailing after him. Merlin just stares at him, mouth wide open, and, for quite likely the first time in his life, unsure of what to say. "Merlin?"

"He's quite all right, Sire," Gaius says, raising an unfairly judging eyebrow at the both of them. "He's only just found out that you're the king."

Arthur winces, looking apologetic, then turns back to Merlin. "I… I should apologise. You weren't at your best yesterday, and I didn't want you to have more to worry about."

"I called you 'love'," Merlin says, still feeling a bit dazed. He barely notices Gaius's second eyebrow joining the first near his hairline, nor Arthur's sudden, hysterical laughter.

It's fair to say it isn't Merlin's best moment.

~oOo~

The memories do gradually come back. It's the little things at first—remembering the name of a potion Gaius is in the process of making, recalling that time Gwaine got the both of them into a tavern brawl.

And Arthur. The more time he spends around him, the more memories of their time together come back. Despite Merlin's slip of the tongue, Arthur comes to visit him often. The novelty of being in the presence of royalty is quick to wear off, and Merlin soon finds himself being regaled with tales of the adventures he and Arthur have had over the years.

Talking to Arthur is surprisingly easy, despite Merlin barely having any memories of him. The banter, the teasing—it all comes so naturally. The first time Merlin calls Arthur 'dollophead', Arthur throws his head back and laughs so loudly that Merlin fears his eardrums will burst. He tells Arthur as much, but that only makes him laugh harder.

The other knights visit him too, on occasion, as does a lovely, kindhearted young woman named Gwen, though she spends most of her time fretting, making sure he's comfortable and nothing hurts. In another life, she would have made a wonderful physician, but he supposes she must be a wonderful advisor, too.

Days pass and Merlin's injury slowly but surely heals, until one morning, he wakes up with his memories intact.

Looking back, it's a wonder his friendship with Arthur is still just that—a _friend_ ship. Maybe it's down to Merlin's accident that having given him a new outlook on life, but judging how Arthur has been behaving around him, the feelings Merlin has had for him for _years_ are reciprocated.

And thank goodness Gaius forwent confining Merlin to his bed, because he needs to go see Arthur _now_. With a bit of luck, Merlin can catch him before he leaves for the training grounds and they can resolve all this pent up tension. A whispered word is all it takes for his boots to walk themselves across the floor towards the foot of his bed. One more spell, and they're on his feet, buckled, and Merlin is ready to leave.

He may still be wearing his nightclothes, but he’s past the point of caring. It's not the first time he's wandering about the castle in such a state, and he's under no illusions that it will be the last. Not a single person bothers to bat an eye at him.

When he arrives at the door leading into Arthur's chambers, Merlin stumbles through without bothering to knock.

"By all means, Merlin. Do come in," Arthur says, not even bothering to turn to face him.

"Might not have been me," Merlin says, inching forward. "I could have been an assassin for all you know, and what would you have done then?"

"Forgive me for expecting any potential assassin of mine to traipse around a bit more quietly," Arthur counters, finally whirling around to look at Merlin, a smile fixed firmly on his face. Merlin smiles back.

They've been doing a lot of that lately, the smiling.

"I hope you don't expect to be returning to your duties anytime soon," Arthur says. "I've become quite used to having my chambers so immaculate."

"Not too used to it, I hope. Wouldn't want to be out of a job," Merlin grins back, walking up to Arthur. "But no, I've not yet been given the go ahead to go back to work. I'm here because there's something I wanted to talk to you about."

"Really? I never could get you to shut up before. Good to know that hasn't cha— oomph—"

It turns out planting a kiss on his lips is a _very_ good way to get Arthur to stop talking. He'll need to remember that for future reference.

Within a second of Merlin instigating the kiss, Arthur's hands find their way onto his hips. He pulls Merlin towards him, pressing the two of them closer together. Merlin, in turn, winds his fingers through Arthur's hair and tugs, drawing out a quiet moan.

Putting his fingers through Merlin's belt loops, Arthur tugs him forward while slowly backing away in the direction of the bed.

"Shouldn't—" Merlin says in between kisses. "We— talk— about— this?"

"Later." Arthur kisses him on the lips one last time before moving down to Merlin's jaw, then his neck, where he momentarily stops to mark the skin. They only separate when Arthur's calves hit the mattress and he sits down, crowding Merlin in between his legs.

"Later," Merlin agrees, looking down at Arthur's red lips and mussed hair "I can wait till later."

And with that, they both fall back onto the bed, though not without a grunt of pain on Arthur's part when Merlin falls on top of him.

"I imagined that going a bit differently," he says with a huff of laughter, helping Merlin sit up and straddle him properly.

"I didn't," Merlin says. His fingers are already at the ties of Arthur's breeches, fumbling with the knot. "Well, maybe a little. I had a love confession at the ready, but then you were there, standing right in front of me, and I couldn’t help myself. I've been wanting to do this for _years_."

Arthur stops moving and stares up at Merlin with wide eyes. "You remembered?"

"This morning," Merlin confirms. "I woke up and my memories were back. I… I'm not sure it's everything, but yes, I remember."

"That's…" Arthur breathes out a sigh of relief and smiles up at Merlin softly. "That's good. The thought of you never remembering me, of having to start our friendship afresh…"

"I think I understand," Merlin replies, leaning down and pressing their foreheads together. "I can't imagine how I would feel had it been the other way around."

"When I saw that bandit coming for you, my heart nearly stopped in my chest. And then you fell to the ground, so _still…_ I'd never been more scared in my _life_."

Seeing Arthur’s pain, clear as day on his face, has Merlin tearing up. Not knowing what he can do to help, he leans closer and presses a chaste kiss to Arthur's lips.

"I'm here now. I'm all right. You got to him before he could do more than injure me."

He pushes their lips together more insistently, until Arthur gets the message and opens them, letting Merlin in. His hands find their way to Merlin's arse and squeeze. Merlin has to fight to hold back a moan.

And then he realises that no, he doesn't have to hold them back—otherwise what would be the whole point of this exercise? He wants Arthur to know exactly how good he's feeling, exactly how good Arthur's _making_ him feel.

Knot undone, Merlin grasps Arthur's trousers and pulls them down. He smirks when he realises Arthur isn't wearing anything underneath them, but all Arthur does is look back at him unashamedly. The sight of his cock, slowly hardening in its nest of blond curls, has arousal pooling in Merlin's groin. Rather than unlacing his own breeches, he reaches out and wraps his fingers around Arthur's length.

Arthur's breath stutters as Merlin begins stroking him. His hands leave Merlin's arse and tangle themselves in his hair as he kisses him, slowly tracing the seam of Merlin's lips with his tongue. Merlin opens them, allowing Arthur to deepen the kiss, never once stopping the motions of his hand. His own cock is throbbing in his breeches, no doubt leaving a wet stain at the front of them.

Merlin startles when Arthur grinds the heel of his palm against his clothed cock. A soft moan tears itself from his throat and he removes his hands from Arthur's length, desperate to get his own clothes off. Arthur lets him go, taking the opportunity to divest himself of his own tunic, then inching Merlin's up and over his head.

Neither of them can be bothered to do anything about their boots, though, because that would require they separate for a few seconds too many. Once his trousers are around his knees, Merlin settles back on top of Arthur's thighs.

"What do you want to do first?" he asks, trailing one finger over through the wiry hairs spread over the soft expanse of Arthur's stomach and ending at the base of his cock. "Because I have a few ideas…"

"By all means." Arthur motions towards his own body. "Do your worst."

It shouldn't be sexy, what Arthur says, but the expression that accompanies the words— _smouldering_ would be the best way to describe it—has Merlin's cock jerking and leaking a thin strand of fluid onto Arthur's thigh.

"We could start with a bit of stroking," Merlin says, once more wrapping his fingers around Arthur's cock. "Or I could try to get you off with my mouth." He scoots back along Arthur's legs until he can get his mouth near Arthur's cock. Merlin blows on it softly, grinning when the sensation of breath ghosting over his hot length makes Arthur shiver.

"Your mouth," Arthur decides. "I want to see your lips wrapped around me."

Ever so slowly, Merlin takes Arthur's cock into his mouth, wrapping his fingers around what he can’t fit. With his other hand, he reaches back and toys with Arthur's balls, rolling them between his fingers. Arthur's fingers clench where they're tangled in the bedsheets, his grip so tight that it turns his knuckles white.

Pulling back a little, Merlin tongues at Arthur's slit, licking away the wetness. He keeps his eyes on Arthur’s reactions and is gratified to see the redness that's risen to his cheeks, the arm Arthur has thrown over his eyes.

It all ends embarrassingly quickly. Merlin has half a mind to tease Arthur about it, but he doesn't, knowing that if it had been _Arthur_ between _his_ legs, Merlin wouldn't have lasted much longer. Still, the smile that's risen to his lips doesn't want to fade. Merlin tries hiding it by pressing his face into the hollow of Arthur's hip.

The gentle tug at his hair tells him it didn't quite work out the way he wanted it to, but when Merlin looks back up at him, Arthur doesn't seem upset. He has a smile of his own fixed on his face, satisfied and languid.

Merlin crawls up Arthur's body until he can press another kiss to his lips. Arthur's hands slide back down to his arse, pulling him forward. At the same time, he lifts his thigh and rubs it against Merlin's cock.

"Go on, then," Arthur whispers against Merlin's lips. "I want to see you rut against my thigh. Want your come all over me, marking me."

Merlin presses his face into the crook of Arthur's neck, trying to hold back his whimpers. His words alone are almost enough to make Merlin come, but the possessive grip of Arthur's hands on him, Arthur's body beneath him, the sound of Arthur's voice?

He thrusts his hips forward, looking for more stimulation, more friction. When his pace stutters, Arthur helps, pulling him closer, moving him back, sucking another love bite onto that unfairly sensitive spot on the side of Merlin's neck.

It doesn't take much—four more thrusts and he's gone, feeling like he's gone flying somewhere above the clouds where no one can reach him, where the only thing that matters is Arthur, and him, and him and Arthur, together.

"I love you," Merlin whispers into Arthur's ear, half-hoping he'll hear, half-hoping he won't. "I love you _so much_."

"I know," Arthur whispers back, sliding one of his hands up and down the length of Merlin's spine. When he doesn't say the words back, Merlin smacks him in the shoulder and is rewarded with a chuckle.

"Ass."

"Your ass," Arthur replies, nosing at Merlin's hair. "Of course I love you too. I've been wanting to tell you for ages, but I wanted to be sure you felt the same."

"As if I could feel differently." Merlin snorts. "The attack, the memory loss… It opened my eyes, but I've loved you for years."

"We've clearly both been idiots, then," Arthur says with a grin.

"Clearly, you've been the bigger idiot" —Merlin moves off Arthur and onto the mattress, laying his head in the hollow of Arthur's shoulder— "since I confessed my feelings first."

"Clearly," Arthur says, "you won't be wanting a repeat of our previous activities."

Merlin sits up so quickly he almost gets whiplash. "What?"

"Insulting your king isn't the proper way to go about getting your cock in his arse, now is it," Arthur tuts. How he manages to look so imperious despite lying upon mussed sheets, sweaty and covered in come— _Merlin's_ come—Merlin will never know. The sight is enough to make him lose track of thought, and it's made all the worse when Arthur decides to spread his legs.

Merlin just needs to lean back a little and he'll be able to see _everything_.

"Merlin," Arthur prompts, but Merlin can't tear his eyes away from Arthur's groin.

"What was the question?" he asks after a beat too long.

"I see I'll have my work cut out for me," Arthur sighs in an exaggeratedly put upon way. "Starting with making sure you have a brain between those two dinner plates you call 'ears'."

"I'll show you dinner plates." Merlin lunges at him, pillow in hand.

The sound of Arthur's ensuing laughter, loud and unrestrained, might just be the best thing he’s ever heard.


End file.
